Nancy Farmer - The Land of the Silver Apples

The Bard entertained them with a story about an island made entirely of ice, on which he had spent a week. He’d had a battle with a troll-bear floating on the same island and drove it into the sea.

Jack’s thoughts kept going back to Lucy. She had always been different from the rest of them, so fair and golden-haired. It wasn’t only her coloring. She moved in a way that made you glad. Her smile made you forget how irritating she’d been a moment before. Even Jack, who wasn’t as besotted as Father, found himself laughing for no good reason when she chose to be pleasant.

The Bard and Pega stayed the night, for which Jack was grateful. He felt uncomfortable around Father. There wasn’t enough bedding for all of them, so of course the Bard got the best of it. Jack and Pega made do with meager piles of straw, while Lucy, as befitted a lost princess, slept on a heap of fluffy sheepskins.

Jack woke before dawn, cold and irritable. The Bard was already sitting by a lively fire and beckoned him to the hearth as though nothing had happened the day before. “I’ve been thinking about your sister,” the old man said, poking the flames with his staff.

“I suppose she isn’t really my sister,” Jack said. In a way it felt as though Lucy were dead, though of course she was sleeping in the loft.

“It isn’t a matter of blood ties, lad. All your life you’ve cared for her, and that makes her your sister in your heart. What concerns me is what she is capable of feeling.”

The dawn chorus of birds was beginning—the whistle of robins, burble of wrens, and trill of thrushes. Beyond them all, in orchards and woodlands, crows called to one another as if reassuring themselves that their comrades had survived the night. Thorgil would have understood what they were saying, though she found their empty-headed chatter annoying.

“I saw Thorgil, sir,” Jack blurted out. “When I was farseeing.”

“You succeeded? Well done!”

Jack basked in the praise. He explained how he’d seen the painted bird sitting on the cane and how it suddenly had a grasshopper in its beak.

“That happens when the vision comes alive,” the Bard explained. “You saw the bird as he was when the old Roman painted him.”

“There was a light on the cane, and when I turned to find out where it was coming from, I saw a fire on a seashore. Thorgil was having a fight with a strange boy.”

“That sounds about right,” the Bard said. “Tell me, was the water to the east or west of them?”

Jack was suddenly swept with longing, and the vision strengthened in his mind. He saw the gray-green sea stretched out beyond the fire. The sun was rising above a fog bank far out on the water. And that meant—that meant—“The water lay to the east!”

The Bard nodded. Jack understood at once. The Northmen had crossed the sea again. What were they planning? Was Thorgil even now sailing down the coast with a band of berserkers?

The Bard put his finger to his lips. “We’ll speak of this later.” Jack heard Lucy complaining from the loft and Father apologizing. Pega sat up abruptly with straw dripping from her wispy hair. She sprang into action, storing bedding, lining up cups, and placing a poker in the fire to heat cider. Jack appreciated her efforts, but sometimes her incessant energy made him feel tired. Before Mother arrived, Pega had the iron pot, purchased with Jack’s silver, on the hearth and was heating water for oatmeal. Father lurched down the ladder with Lucy in his arms.

“Where’s my cider?” the little girl demanded. “I’m dying of thirst. I like my porridge with lots of honey.”

“I’ll help you,” Jack said hastily, before Pega could drop the poker on Lucy’s head. He took the skin bag and filled the cups. Mother took over the task of preparing oatmeal.

“I want to see Brother Aiden,” she said, looking down at her work.

“Of course,” Father replied meekly.

“Excellent idea!” said the Bard. “I have questions for him too. I’m fairly certain what those creatures in the hazel wood were, but Brother Aiden’s opinion would be useful.”

“I want to know where they live.” Mother stirred the oatmeal without looking up. “I want you to find them, Giles, and bring our daughter home, and I want this to happen immediately, with no side trips to drink ale with the blacksmith. Do you hear me?”

It was so rare for Mother to give orders that everyone stared at her in amazement. People forgot she was a wise woman with knowledge of small magic and an ability to control animals by voice alone. She was using that voice now. No one spoke, not even the Bard. Jack felt the air tremble.

“Do you hear me, Giles?” repeated Mother.

“Yes, dearest,” said Father. The air stopped vibrating. Everyone relaxed and continued with whatever he or she was doing.

Mist was curling up from the fields and meadows as they walked to Brother Aiden’s hut. Lucy insisted on riding Bluebell, though Jack thought it would have done her good to walk.

Brother Aiden was sitting outside, his face turned toward a flock of swallows wheeling in the upper air. He regarded them with an expression of such joy that Jack looked up to see if he’d missed something. They were ordinary birds swooping and twittering, but Jack noticed that they never strayed far from Brother Aiden’s hut.

“They’re worshipping God,” said the little man, waking from his trance to greet his visitors. When Brother Aiden turned his attention from the sky, the swallows drifted away toward the hazel wood.

The chamber inside the beehive hut was dark and cramped, with a tiny altar topped by a small pewter cross. Father had made him a stool and worktable, as well as a chest to store supplies. When everything was inside, there was scarcely room for the monk himself. And so Father had built him a shed for cooking. Beside this neat little compound was a garden for herbs and vegetables.

When the weather was good, Brother Aiden dragged his table outside to work on a copy of the scriptures. He was working on it now, and his inks were lined up next to goose quills and brushes tipped with marten fur. He had only three pieces of parchment, but he worked so slowly, it didn’t matter. The parchment was covered in swirling designs with odd little details like vines or snakes or eyes.

“Do they truly worship?” Father said in wonder, watching the swallows fly away.

“All things praise Him,” Brother Aiden said. “When St. Cuthbert used to meditate in cold seawater up to his neck, the otters swarmed over his feet to dry them when he came out.”

Jack was about to ask how something as wet as an otter could dry anything when he was silenced by a stern look from the Bard.

“We’ve come to you with questions,” the old man said.

“I’ll do my best, though you know I’m not greatly educated.”

“You’ll do,” said the Bard, smiling. “Giles has just revealed that his girl Lucy isn’t his.” And he recounted the story of the elder tree and swarm of little men.

“Interesting,” said Brother Aiden. “They sound like pookas.”

“Pookas?” said Jack, to whom the term was unfamiliar.

“Or hobgoblins. They go by many names,” said the Bard. “I thought of them too.”

“I can’t bear to think of my child being carried off by those—those things ! Is she even alive?” cried Mother.

“My poor Alditha!” Brother Aiden grasped her hands. “We’re a pair of fools, talking about your daughter as though she were only an amusing problem. I think it very likely your child is alive. Pookas aren’t evil, just mischievous. They sometimes turn milk sour or knock holes in buckets. Nothing major.”